Closest to Heaven
by Theyumenoinu
Summary: [[Destiel]] Dean unceremoniously cuts Castiel from his life after the death of his little brother. And when Castiel returns, he finds Dean old, grey, and withering away ((Dean with dementia)). Warning for feels and major character death!


**Summary:**

**Castiel took in the surrounding foliage, wilting and bare; the Earth's preparation for the upcoming winter. And recalled how he once informed Dean that everything had its season—how all things must end. Not realizing at the time that one day those words would return to haunt him.**

**-Dean unceremoniously cuts Castiel from his life after the death of his little brother. And when Castiel returns, he finds Dean old, grey, and withering away. ((Dean with dementia))-**

**Pairing: Dean/Castiel, Destiel**

**Disclaimer: I do NOT own Supernatural or its characters.**

**WARNING: Major Character Death, and lots of feels.**

**A/N: There will be major character death. But please consider that this will end on a bitter-sweet note, so not entirely depressing. There will be a bit of angst, introspect, and heartache due to Dean's mental state. This will be either 2 or 3 parts long (so 2 or 3 chapters), and will eventually turn into Destiel. Castiel has his grace, and Dean is no longer a demon-just to be clear. This will certainly be a kick in the feels, and I advise you all to proceed with caution (that is, if you can't handle these types of fics).**

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><p><strong>Closest to Heaven<strong>

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><p><strong>Part I<strong>

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><p>Sam was the first to go.<p>

It had been peaceful—at least, that's what Tessa had been quick to reassure when she informed him. Passing away in ones sleep was an ideal death; the majority of the human race prayed for it, some even taking the liberty themselves. But Castiel wasn't completely certain that it would be entirely painless, especially after his own experiences. Nonetheless, he was grateful that Sam's life had ended with minimal amount of pain as possible while wrapped in the arms of the woman he cherished deeply.

Dean, on the other hand, took the sudden loss of his little brother as one would expect—hard. Often, he would appear to Dean after a prayer to find him heavily intoxicated and out of sorts. Other times, he'd spot Dean from Heaven, alone and charging headfirst into danger with reckless abandon. The man was quite insufferable, but Castiel could hardly dissuade him from his self-destructive behavior. It was simply in the man's nature to allow his emotions to get the better of him.

Sam had passed shortly after his sixtieth birthday; relatively young for a human since their lifespans averaged around eighty. And with age inexplicably being of consequence to Dean, believing everyone should live a long and full life—and for Dean, that meant longer than his own—Castiel was fairly certain that that was the reason his grief extended longer than it should have.

And after everything the man had endured and lost, Castiel supposed he couldn't begrudge him the comforts he sought.

Eventually, Dean's restlessness abated. Whether it was by choice or due to certain impairments brought on by his aging body, Castiel couldn't say. However, Castiel still remained ever vigilant, watching over him when he was most vulnerable. And despite Dean's insistence that he was "all right", Castiel still found himself at his side whether the man called for him or not.

"You _can't _or you _won't _leave me alone?" Dean asked one day, swirling the copper contents in his glass before tipping it back into his mouth.

Castiel stared studiously at the man before him, taking in his backwoods appearance; eyes bloodshot and listless, a week's worth of growth concealing the sharp angles of his face, his greying hair ruffled, unkempt. It was as though he were gazing upon the broken shell of a man—that the true Dean had died along with Sam.

Perhaps, he had.

"…Both," Castiel replied at length, observing the flash of vexation in the cool green tones glaring back at him.

Pursing his lips, Dean leaned over on the sofa to snatch the half-empty bottle from the side table, and spilled a fair amount of liquid as he poured himself another glassful. "Listen," he exhaled exasperatedly, "I don't need to be_ babysat_, all right? Besides, don't you have other pressing matters to concern yourself with, which may or may not involve a bunch of winged dicks?"

He did, but they seemed strangely trivial in comparison to the well-being of his friend.

"I have no doubts you can care for yourself, Dean."

An incredulous huff leaked from bourbon stained lips. "Could've fooled me." He gulped down another mouthful of the fiery liquid, hissing out a breath before setting the glass down onto the coffee table. "There's a saying for that, you know:_ too much of a good thing_, yada yada yada…"

A strange twinge occurred in his chest at the petulant tone.

"You don't wish to see me anymore…?"

Dean's lips pursed once more, his eyes settling on his hands now loosely clasped between his knees. "Cas…" Worrying away at his bottom lip with his teeth, he cleared his throat before continuing, "I just need a break…okay? I just—" he huffed. "There are a few things I need to sort out without you hovering over me like some helicopter parent." Pausing for a heartbeat, he inhaled deeply and stated with a tone of finality, "I need you to leave for a while."

Inexplicable pain pierced him at the dismissal—so unexpectedly overwhelming that for a fraction of a second, Castiel struggled to maintain his equilibrium. Though, Dean would scarcely notice the difference from his carefully schooled countenance.

That is, if he had decided to look up at him just then.

"I promise you will not see me," and with that said, he cloaked himself and obligingly returned to the Heavenly realm.

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><p>Time passed without any word from the eldest Winchester. On occasion, he'd catch wind of Dean's recent hunts, but was careful not to inquire further. Instead, he immersed himself in his duties and casted any residual concerns out of his mind.<p>

Finding it much easier said than done.

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><p>There was a brief moment where his self-restraint lapsed, and curiosity lead him to personally check-in on his silent friend—only to behold angel wards placed on every wall and window of the isolated cabin. A clear indication that his presence was unwelcomed, and his services no longer required.<p>

Still, Castiel remained there until he caught a hint of movement behind the half-drawn curtains, then ruffled is wings and ascended once more.

This time without any intention of returning.

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><p>The call jarred him when he received it.<p>

After nearly a decade had passed on Earth, he'd almost forgotten the sensation of being prayed to directly. However, he still hesitated—uncertain if there were an ulterior motive for the abrupt decision to end the silence.

Dean must have sensed his wariness, because the prayer began to develop an edge of hopelessness and desperation—a display of vulnerability reserved mainly for him. And something Castiel, quite frankly, couldn't disregard.

Grudgingly, he allowed his wings to carry him back to Earth, and landed a fair distance away from the man for precautionary measures.

Briefly admiring the various colors sweeping across the evening sky as the sun descended in the distance, he then turned his attention to the backside of the person he believed he wouldn't speak to again—whom currently had his gaze fixated on Sam's headstone.

"Hello, Dean."

Dean whipped his head around at the greeting, eyes widening marginally as though surprised that Castiel had even manifested at all. He presumed it was likely. Dean's faith in others had always proven fragile even in the best of circumstances.

"Cas?" his once sturdy voice had withered, gruff and weak with old age.

The passing of time was evident by his appearance; hair streaked grey, wrinkles prominent on his face, skin pliant in places that were once firm and smooth. Despite his physical state, Castiel still viewed him as the young man he'd come to know, and found a familiar solace while being in his presence.

Though, he'd refrain from admitting that out loud.

Dean held his gaze for a prolonged second, a maelstrom of emotion raging within his eyes before the connection was unceremoniously broken. "Man," scoffing softly, Dean shook his head, "I should give you a damn medal. David Copperfield couldn't disappear as well as you can."

Canting his head to the side, Castiel squinted bemusedly at him, "I don't understand… You asked me to leave you alone."

"Oh, yeah. I sure did," Dean agreed with an undercurrent of anger in his voice. "Just didn't think you'd write me a 'Dear John' letter, then hit the road and never come back. What was so different about this time?" His arms extended away from his body to put an emphasis on his confusion, his head dipping as he pointed out, "It's not like you ever _listened_ when I told you to get lost before."

Castiel couldn't help but feel he was missing something—subtext being a conversational finesse he wasn't exactly adept with. "Dean…I'm not sure what you want me to say."

Heaving a heavy sigh, Dean averted his eyes to stare intently at some unknown object just beyond Castiel's right shoulder. "Nothing." Reaching back to grab the cane resting against the stone, he muttered sullenly, "You don't have to say anything."

Now Castiel was certain he had missed some underlying matter of consequence, but instead of delving further into it, he allowed an almost tangible silence to fill the space between them. And waited patiently as Dean silently debated his next course of action to himself.

Coming to some sort of decision, Dean took a few steps toward him; his left leg buckling beneath his weight, the cane compensating for the lack of strength and keeping him balanced.

"You've been injured."

Dean's lips quirked at the corner. "Brilliant deduction there, Sherlock. Good to know you haven't changed in that department," his tone, albeit sarcastic, sounded much lighter in contrast to that of only a short time ago, which eased the mounting tension between them.

A sense of guilt overcame him not much later when realization struck that he hadn't been there to protect him, if not, heal him. How could he have left Dean for as long as he had?

_What has he been up to all these years? _

"What happened?"

Dean shrugged, hobbling over to him, halting just a few feet shy to maintain personal space. "Crowley," he replied nonchalantly, as though it were explanation enough and not in the slightest bit important.

Rage flared red-hot inside Castiel, his hands clenching into tight fists; barely managing to sustain a semblance of calm. How had he not sensed Dean's pain? How had he not heard his calls?

"…I…I'm so sorry, Dean," he faltered, grappling for an adequate justification for his absence, but to no avail.

A dismissive wave of Dean's hand saved him from crippling self-reproach, if only temporarily.

"Don't. I was a little too careless, is all. Even if you had been around, it wouldn't have done any good. The place was coated floor to ceiling in angel wards."

At the mention of wards, Castiel's mouth dried; recalling the pain and rejection he had felt when Dean himself had utilized them to keep him at bay.

With a sharp exhale—a human sign of discomfort or exasperation, he'd come to learn—Dean hastily redirected the conversation by nodding in the direction of the Impala sitting idly at the roadside. "I wouldn't mind some company if you feel like sticking around?" he offered, staring expectantly at him from beneath dark lashes.

"I..." Castiel began, picking his words carefully so not to offend him. "I appreciate…uh, I'm currently in the final stages of a battle and I should return…" he trailed off, analyzing the way Dean's face shadowed with disappointment.

It seemed to have been the wrong thing to say.

Dean smiled tautly, the shine to his eyes dimming considerably. "Right. Rain check, then?"

"…Of course," Castiel agreed tentatively, watching Dean closely as he brushed past him toward the Impala without another word.

It wasn't until he returned to Heaven that he processed Dean's odd behavior. There hadn't been any needling for information, yelling, or blame of any kind. Nor any request for help, for that matter.

_Why? _Castiel pondered as his garrison charged into the fray. Even with demonic forces gaining substantial ground on the Earthly plane, he replayed the conversation continuously in his mind. _Why_ _did he call?_

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><p>Castiel was relieved to see the wards had been removed the next time he ventured to Montana. However, he still felt conflicted by Dean's inexplicable need to seal him out in the first place.<p>

The state of the cabin was something to behold. Castiel recalled having once commented on the orderly condition of the hunters' bunker, but that had been the work of men long since deceased. Though it appeared Dean had taken a few pointers—unrelated to the supernatural—and transformed the departed hunter, Rufus' dusty and disarrayed domicile to a sufficiently clean and presentable living environment.

Bobby Singer's volumes were no longer strewn about in organized chaos, and had been neatly categorized in alphabetical rows on two vertical bookshelves. A matching set of furniture and accenting rug giving the home a certain domesticated feel that was almost alien to what Castiel was accustomed to while working with the Winchesters.

What struck Castiel as odd even more so was the absence of any inebriants. There were no beer bottles lying about, nor any evidence of alcohol consumption whatsoever.

_Something…isn't right. _

Padding into the adjoining room, Castiel came to stand beside the edge of the bed where the mercurial soul—he inexplicably cherished since raising him from perdition—slumbered peacefully.

Dean lied sprawled over the mattress, snoring softly. The purpose of blankets still apparently lost on him as he opted to lie on top of them, and curl beneath his worn and faded brown leather jacket instead.

Moonlight filtered from the window directly above the headboard, caressing the softened features of the man's face, and creating an illusion of youth that would rob Castiel of breath if he had any to begin with. And although aware of Dean's pet peeve of being watched, Castiel found himself drawn to the sight—the man's essence and physical beauty still as awe-inspiring as ever.

It wasn't long before Castiel sensed his mind returning to consciousness, and waited patiently as Dean struggled to shake off REM sleep; blinking blearily and jerking in alarm when he noticed he wasn't alone.

"_Dammit, Cas,_" he growled emphatically, clutching a hand to his chest. "You're going to give me a damn heart attack." Propping himself up on his elbows, Dean squinted as he sought out the analog clock on the nightstand with a soft curse, "What's so important that you have to stand in my room like my personal angel statue at two in the morning?"

"I…" Castiel began, uncertain how to broach the subject. "I came for, uh…" Dean pushed himself upright, eyebrows raising expectantly at him. "The 'rain check'," he managed to get out, though it hardly sounded convincing.

Dean's grey brows hiked higher up his moonlit face. Blinking incredulously, he questioned, "Right _now_? Couldn't have waited for the sun?"

Turning eyes downcast, Castiel sighed. "Yes, it could have. I'll return at a more convenient—"

"No, I'm up," he grunted tiredly. Slinging the jacket across the mattress, Dean rolled onto his side, his denim clad legs dangling over the edge of the bed as he clicked the lamp on, making a disapproving noise when light flooded the room. "I'm not even going to remind you how creepy you are when you do this," Dean muttered peevishly, rubbing at his eyes. "Think you can make some coffee?"

Nodding in reply, Castiel padded back through the living area and into the tiny kitchen, which so happened to be a part of the same room. Utilizing the instructional course from his days at the gas station, he collected the filter and coffee grounds from the cupboard, then turned on the tap to fill the glass pot to the desired line, dumping it into the designated compartment and switching it on soon after.

Castiel's lips twitched as he suppressed a smile, appreciating the simplicity of the task, and recalling the many occasions he had made coffee for the boys. Not to mention, the sense of pride that overcame him whenever they praised him for his efforts.

Dean, especially.

Soft thumping of bare feet resounded through the cabin as Dean emerged from the other room, cane in hand, and collapsed onto the sofa; flicking on the lights without so much as glancing in Castiel's general direction. Passively implying the earlier reunion at the graveyard hadn't resolved much of anything as Castiel had hoped.

"I can heal your leg," he offered as he made his way to Dean, abandoning the coffee machine to do its job.

Dean, whom had been rubbing said injured leg moments before, startled at his voice like he had completely forgotten Castiel was even around. "_No_," he spat out forcefully, taking Castiel aback at the unwarranted astringent tone. Shaking his head apologetically, Dean relented, "I mean, thanks anyway, but I'd rather you didn't."

Castiel's brows furrowed, not comprehending Dean's reluctance to be healed when the man had accepted it countless times before.

His expression must've crossed Dean as wounded or upset for him to quickly add, "It's not you, Cas. I need it…" he trailed off, locking his jaw and dropping his gaze. "It helps."

The cryptic explanation was enough to send his thoughts into a mild panic. "Dean—?"

"How's Sam?"

Releasing an audible breath through his nose, Castiel accepted Dean's need for a subject change—for now—and settled into the chair adjacent. "I've only been granted permission to visit his Heaven once." When Dean pinned him with a worried, inquiring look, Castiel quickly assuaged his concerns, "He seems content."

That information soothed the stiffness from Dean's frame.

"Good. That's…that's good to hear."

"He worries for you, however."

Dean snorted disapprovingly.

"Well, wouldn't be Sammy if he didn't," he chuckled mirthlessly. Raking a hand through his thinning hair, he wondered, "How's everyone else? Bet they all get together and bitch about me—am I right?" he grinned despite himself, though his eyes remained carefully guarded; inscrutable. "Bobby's probably thrilled he's able to swap stories for once."

Castiel's lips twitched in amusement, recalling a somewhat recent conversation with the Winchester's pseudo father. "I admit, the tales I've heard possess a certain _relatable_ quality to them."

Dean gaped at him with mock-affront before shaking his head. Muttering below his breath with a small smile tugging at the edges of his mouth, he remarked, "Bobby, you ass."

The uplifted tone sent a flutter of something pleasant through Castiel; a small smile playing on his own lips as he curiously studied the interior of the cabin once more.

"Why aren't you residing in the bunker?" he queried, turning his head back to meet the startling green hues of Dean's.

Shrugging noncommittally, Dean stiffly rose from his perch, and gripped the handle of the cane until his knuckles whitened. "Too much space for just one guy, you know?" Dean hobbled past the chair, the tip of the stick thudding hard against the wood surfacing with each step. Once he arrived at the coffee machine, he called over his shoulder, "And a pain to clean at that."

Castiel didn't have a reply, sensing once again that he had missed something.

A sudden, loud crash reverberated through the room, followed immediately by a swift curse.

Castiel was on his feet and within Dean's personal space before there was time to blink. Though, when he grasped Dean's wrist to examine the wound caused by the jagged fragments of the now shattered coffee mug on the countertop, he was startled when the man yanked it away, unceremoniously shoving him in the process. Stumbling backward into the counter when Castiel attempted to reach out to him again, Dean's eyes widened with genuine fear, his breaths coming in quick, shallow pants.

"…Dean?" Castiel began tentatively, noting the increased rate of the man's heartbeats.

"Are you here to destroy me?" he rasped, his typical shield of anger sliding firmly into place as he growled, "What do you want, _Cas_? If you want to kill me, just _do_ it already."

Castiel felt his own face distort to that of sheer devastation, his earlier suspicions that something was awry coming to light. "Dean…" Slowly, Castiel stepped toward him, his hands up in a placating gesture to calm him. "I'm not—" Dean flinched away as he extended his hand once more, evoking a vivid memory of the crypt and Naomi's dominating influence over him. "I'm not going to hurt you."

Pinning him with an incredulous stare, Dean gripped the countertop tenaciously with his injured hand and hissed in pain. A confounded look sweeping over his face a moment later as he inspected the laceration, as though it had appeared by magic.

Castiel allowed another minute to pass before hesitantly placing his hand on the man's shoulder, relieved when Dean didn't react adversely to his touch.

"Tell me what's wrong, Dean."

Blinking bemusedly, he eventually met Castiel's eyes. "Cas…? I, uh…" The man swallowed thickly, his substantial walls crashing as he grasped desperately at Castiel's coat, yanking him roughly into an embrace, and fisting his hands deep into the material.

"I…I need you, Cas," his voice strained, as though it had cost him everything to admit it out loud, and Castiel understood that it wasn't meant as either a request or a demand.

Castiel reciprocated the sentiment, something akin to dread stirring within him as he smoothed a hand soothingly along the protruding bumps of Dean's vertebrae. This wasn't Dean, at least, not entirely. There was clearly something beyond Dean's control that flagrantly altered his behavior. And from the close proximity, Castiel could feel the man's consternation and reluctance to speak of it rolling off him in waves. His stubborn pride preventing him from doing so.

Unfurling his battle worn wings—still invisible to Dean's naked eye—he wrapped the man protectively within them, and reveled in the longing whine that escaped Dean as he caressed a couple primary feathers along the man's cheek.

"I'll stay."

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><p>Four months passed.<p>

Four months on Earth and Castiel had not returned to Heaven nor to the garrison.

Although the powers above had eventually balanced out and he had managed to rekindle some sort of bond with his misguided brethren—especially after the unprecedented situation with Metatron—Castiel was painfully aware staying away for such an extended interval could potentially cause a disruption in the process of things. And many times he'd overhear whispered insecurities when it came to his reasons, but none would so much as dare step forward to confront him, or implore him to reconsider.

All he simply said was, "I'm needed here."—and that had been that. No one bothered to argue with him anymore, which was a surprising relief. For once, he wouldn't be forced to decide between Heaven and Dean.

"Why are you here, Cas?"

It was the third instance where Dean had asked him that, and it pained him immensely every time he heard it.

Castiel took in the surrounding foliage; wilting and bare, the Earth's preparation for the upcoming winter, and recalled how he once informed Dean that everything had its season—how all things must end. Not realizing at the time that one day those words would return to haunt him.

"You wanted me to be," Castiel reminded gently, following Dean's fixed gaze to the expanse of the lake; the sheen surface rippling with the autumn breeze.

As though reading his thoughts, Dean sighed dejectedly and turned up the collar of his jacket to fend off the wind, "You don't have to."

It was an offer, Castiel realized. An opportunity to "opt out" of what Dean believed to be a weighing responsibility.

Giving him a considering sidelong glance, and sensing the man's mounting guilt, Castiel assured him, "I'm not burdened." _Nor will I ever be, not when it comes to you, _he silently added to himself, not wishing to cause more discomfort than necessary.

Dean said nothing for a couple of heartbeats before snorting in disbelief, and scrubbed a hand languidly over his face. Shifting minutely on the bench, Dean flicked his eyes uncertainly in his direction before returning to stare absently at the water.

"You know you don't owe me anything, right? You saved me from existing as a black-eyed bastard, that's more than enough."

Dropping his head slightly, Castiel nodded in understanding, "I know."

Sighing in resignation, Dean hunched forward with an air of defeat. The breeze lifted a few stray strands of hair atop his head, and Castiel quashed the compelling urge to reach out and smooth them back into place. Choosing instead to place a wing gently against the man's back in comfort.

Castiel prayed then.

And even though he wasn't exactly certain if his intentions weren't tarnished by selfish desire, he found he didn't particularly care at the moment if it meant another day he could spend with Dean.

"Why won't you allow me to heal your leg?" Castiel queried, observing his grimace as he bared weight onto it, reaching for the plate of raw hamburger.

Castiel could easily rectify physical injuries. The power of the mind—God's tool of free will; however, was another matter. When he had taken Sam's hallucinations of Lucifer unto himself, it had nearly destroyed him. He could not so easily do the same with Dean. And even if he were able to cure him of his dementia, Castiel knew Dean would refuse, thinking it wouldn't be worth the risk.

A resounding hiss pierced the air as Dean dropped a patty onto the cast-iron skillet, resolutely keeping his back to him. "Does it matter?"

"Dean—"

"Man, you are as _just_ as bad as Sam, if not _worse_," he snapped, clumsily whirling around and making a wild gesture in the air, grease droplets flying from the spatula. "You've been riding my ass about this for weeks! Think you could give a guy a break and _drop it_ already?"

Although Castiel had, over time, come to learn colloquial metaphors and idioms, he still found most to be absurd and quite bemusing. Though, he figured it was safer to assume Dean hadn't meant riding his ass in the literal sense, considering the man had, in the past, barked at him to get out of it.

"I will," he conceded, sensing fear lance through Dean's pulsating anger, "but first tell me…" Taking a few steps forward into the man's precious "personal space", he peered into wary green orbs, noticing how Dean withered under the intense scrutiny. "What happened with Crowley?"

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><p><strong>AN: To be continued... Comments, favorites, and follows are not only loved, but greatly appreciated! **


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